As we sat around the old table, stains peeling away and revealing a deeper set of coffee rings and smears on the surface, the air was as thick as the improvised lacquer of spilled drinks. We were high school seniors, fresh out of prom, and facing the summer ahead of us with a wistful sense of our ability to do anything that we wished.
"I really like Morgan Freeman, and the The Bucket List was fantastic." Steven had suffered the same end of the year treat that I had in Sociology, the time filling movie. However, he had missed the point when we sat down to explain our lofty ideas for chasing the sun. While neither Jane or I knew what exactly it was that we had in mind, we could not shake the feeling that our idea was profound.
Sometime in between the half-hearted preparations for finals and walking up in our emerald green mortarboard, the idea for a summer bucket list came to mind. We would live the summer as if it was our last, as we all silently recognized that college would change us, somehow, and that for these three months ahead, we must live in the moment.
The melody of a ukulele played over us, familiar and recorded. Only a table or so away, a man chuckled.
His bucket was worn, but not rusty.